


Soho Tales

by hazelhollyhock



Series: His Josephine [1]
Category: Ripper Street
Genre: F/M, Jedediah Shine - Freeform, London Metropolitan Police, Original Character - Freeform, Soho, brothel, ripper street - Freeform, victorian london
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-11
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-17 12:07:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10593684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazelhollyhock/pseuds/hazelhollyhock
Summary: Prequel to Across the Irish Sea. This story takes place in the notorious Soho District of 1870s Victorian London. Jedediah Shine is a young Constable with C Division. Josephine is a 16-year old brothel worker. Their chance meeting in a back alley off Shine's beat is where it all began.





	1. Chapter 1

It was the shortest day of the year and the darkness had come upon her too soon. Josephine clutched her arms as goosebumps rose on her skin underneath her thin jacket. The wind caught her skirt and pulled and pushed at it; within seconds she was frozen to the bone.

The 16-year old girl knew that taking a path through the alleys would be the quickest way to her destination, so she cut down one, advancing into the darkness, the buildings blocking any gaslight.

Just as she was about to re-enter the street on the other side, someone grabbed her from behind and swiveled her around, pushing her into the dingy wall, shrouding both of them in the shadows.

Dried, shredded corners of pasted adverts tangled in her hair.

She was turned to face a man with greasy, unwashed hair who pressed a knife to her throat.

"Why 'ello there girly, why is such a love'y cunny comin' through my alley?" His free hand reached up and fondled her breast before resting on the buttons of her coat. "Now. No shoutin’ and I won't cut yer throat." He leaned in and pressed a dirty kiss to her chin and neck.

On the opposite side of the street, a young Constable slowly meandered his way towards them, walking his beat as he normally did this time of night.

When the wind shifted, he heard what sounded like whimpers and a scuffle from one of the alleys. He walked more deliberately towards the alley, in which he made out a man pinning a woman against a wall. Down in Limehouse or anywhere in Whitechapel you’d find a couple engaging in a stand-up such as this, but something was a little out of sorts here.

He could barely see the young woman’s face as the attacker lifted her skirt. He had her pinned up against the wall with her legs wiggling around his waist, her arms splayed out, palms against the wall.

Then he saw the flash of a knife at her throat and his adrenaline started to pump fiercely.

The girl, paralyzed with fear and shock, barely breathed while the man grabbed her skirts and hiked them up around her waist. She tried to make her mind work, but all that returned was a blankness. In her state of confusion while her eyes were locked on the man before her, she never saw the other descend on the pair of them. Before she could process, her attacker had been pulled down in a suffocating chokehold.

Free from her restraints, she dropped to the ground.

“OI! You’re a real man, aintcha! Gettin’ your jollifications off with this innocent girl!” the young Constable shouted. She watched him take hold of the man and ram him, like a ramming rod, into the wall.

The young Constable kicked the knife out of the attacker’s reach.

The man moaned and groaned in pain, clutching his head.

The Constable turned to her with an abrupt twist. “You alright, Miss?”

She had folded into herself on the ground. She was no longer shaking from the cold, now she shook from shock.

The attacker leapt onto the Constable’s back, bringing him down to street level. With a series of expletives aimed at the policeman and the police in general, the man threw a few clumsy punches at the young man’s face.

With the momentum of a bull, the Constable sat up and pushed the attacker off of him. Masculine groans and grunts filled her ears. Whipping out his billy club, he launched a few strategic and determined blows to the man’s head, silencing the brute for good.

The girl cowered low on the wall, eyes on the two bodies, horror-shocked and wide. She could not command her legs to run.

The Constable came to stand, and spit out some blood as he brushed himself off. He wiped his mouth with the back of a hand and bridged the space between them in two large strides.

“Give me your hand.”

She stared through him.

“Are you alright?”

She couldn’t speak.

“Are you deaf? Or do you not speak English,” he asked earnestly.

She took his hand and stood up.

He put his arm around her, “you are trembling like a leaf, you are. Here,” he placed a firm arm around her. She could smell benzene on the woolen tunic. He took her elbow, bent to pick up his helmet, and walked her away from the scene. As they moved, she turned to glimpse back at the unconscious man.

“Is he -,” she began, but then the street started to get topsy turvy on her.

She fell into him, his arms immediately grabbing hold of her.

“Whoa, whoa.”

Taking a few moments to pull herself together, the young Constable continued to hold her, his arms firmly wrapped around her. She became acutely aware of his closeness, his heart’s rapid beat, the stubble of his chin resting on the crown of her head.

“There, there. You’re safe now. I have you. I have you.” 

Her breathing began to slow and steady itself. A calloused finger came under her chin, forcing her to look up at him.

“Look at me,” he commanded quietly.

His eyes, sharp and peculiarly cat-like, bored into her. In the dim yellow light of the street, she could see the beginnings of a swelling bruise over one of them. In her daze, she could see a bit of blood on his bottom lip, where her gaze may have lingered a bit too long.

“You alright?” He asked.

She stared at him.

“What is your name?” He pressed.

He began to wonder if she was a bit soft in the head.

“Josephine. Josephine Wilde,” she finally managed.

“Well, Ms. Wilde, I am Police Constable Jedediah Shine,” he said with stoic properness while brushing off his tunic and straightening his helmet. “A young woman should not be out walking these streets at this time of night.” Straightening, “Now, if you will allow it, I would see you safely to your destination.” He took her by the elbow and started to walk. “Ms. Pearl’s is just up the street.”

How did he know...

“I don’t believe I’ve seen you there before," she said shakily.

“Well I’ve seen you,” he said curtly. "Come on," he beckoned.

“You should consider carrying a small dagger on you at all times when you go out,” he declared as they stood before the house's front doors.

“Yes, you’re right,” she offered him.

“Many women conceal one here,” he bent down and placed his hand on the side of her calf, lifting her skirt a little. She jerked her leg away from his touch as though he were made of fire. To his surprise he caught a glimpse of modest white stockings in the gaslight. Nothing bright or garish like most whores.

They locked eyes for a moment.

His forehead creased slightly. “What is it exactly you do here, Ms. Wilde?” 

“I work each day to pay off my debts to the Madame, like everyone else in this house.”

“And how do you do that?”

“I cook, clean, sew. And occasionally, I offer assistance to any man who may need it before bedding one of the other girls.”

“How so?”

“Oh come, Constable. Use your imagination.”

“Even if I didn’t want to, I daresay I couldn’t help but use it now,” he chuckled, which caused her to laugh a little too loudly. Puffs of white escaped her mouth.

Windchimes. Something about her laugh reminded him of windchimes.

The planes of her face were illuminated softly by an overhead streetlight. Her eyes were large and framed with dark eyebrows, thick lashes. Her nose was straight, her lips full and comely. Her cheekbones were set high and wide. He had indeed noticed the ephemeral beauty in the brothel, but he had never seen her with the other girls nor was she accessible to the likes of a lowly Constable. 

“How old are you?” He narrowed his eyes at her.

“Why, how old are you, Constable?” she asked in mock defiance.

He smirked. “Twenty.”

With relief she felt his hardness soften ever so slightly towards her, though the intensity of his gaze seemed to increase in proportion. It had a strange effect on her: like she were the only woman in all of London in that moment.

“I really must go now,” she said, breaking the spell. “Please, if I may ask this of you, to keep this unfortunate rumpus secret. The Madame does not usually permit me to go out alone and I fear she will lock me up forever if she knows I was attacked.”

“Consider it done.”

“By the way, Inspector Pankhursts’ men pay half price for the services offered here by the fine ladies of this establishment. The many girls here would have had to go without their seamstress and maid had you not done your excellent duty this night. I am sure they would be most enthusiastic to show you their gratitude.”

“Their gratitude is not necessary.”

“You have mine nonetheless.”

“Good night, Ms. Wilde,” he responded, the cold politeness returning. He nodded his head and turned.

Josephine watched the back of his tall figure retreat into the frozen fog then turned to enter the house quietly, hoping to return to her little room without notice.

Jedediah approached the rumpled man in the alley and blew his whistle, a call to his brethren to come to his assistance. He would need another pair of hands to load the man's unconscious weight into a Black Maria.

Standing over the attacker's body in the dark alley, he heard the oncoming sound of boots on the pavement. He smiled to himself, as though he alone was aware of an intimate secret: windchimes. Josephine Wilde's laugh sounds like windchimes.


	2. Chapter 2

“Yes, who is it?” A voice inquired at the sound of a light tapping on her door.

“It’s Jo. I’ve got your powders.”

The door opened just enough to allow a foot’s width. “Took long enough,” the woman stuck her nose out.

“Sorry, M. Time got away from me.”

“You get lost in one of them book shops, girl? Where is it you looking to escape this time, eh? Arabia? Ancient Greece?” she asked, pushing open the door slightly more and resting against the doorframe, one hand on her hip.

“Not so far. Derbyshire, actually.” Josephine produced the tattered tome from her skirt pocket.

“The Midlands? Oh, Jo, you must set your horizons a bit further out!” Marcella laughed, shaking her head. “Alright then, give over. I’m expecting that Baron of mine this night and if I don't have my prophylactic boullion to eradicate every last bit of him from my cunny after he leaves I may kill someone,” she laughed again. Josephine placed the packets in the woman’s outstretched hand.

Madame Marcella was how she was known to the world at large, but Josephine knew her real name to be Lucy. She was a fit model for any artist, and had sat, and spread, for many who walked through Ms. Pearl de Vere's corridors. Her curves were soft and supple. Her neck was long and elegant.

She had a genteel, ephemeral countenance, dark tresses, large green eyes that were always tender and inviting, no matter what mood she was in.

She was no lady underneath, but she had the ability to dress up like one and no mistake.

Josephine felt the tendrils coming out of her hairpins and self-consciously straightened her hat.

“You’re a bit of a mess, aren’t you? Is it that blustery out this night?” Marcella leaned towards Josephine, sniffed, then crinkled her nose in slight disgust. “Jo, what have you been up to? Why do you smell like shit?”

She grabbed hold of the wide-eyed girl and pulled her into her room, closing the door behind her.

“Tell me. Where have you been tonight?”

“It’s nothing.”

“You are a mess. Did someone attack you?”

When Josephine said nothing, Marcella’s mouth flew open. “What happened!”

“M, you cannot let de Vere know.”

“Why?”

“Promise me.”

“My dear, I swear it. Only, tell me why the secrecy?”

Josephine turned and sat down on a chair in front of Marcella’s chevallier. Gathering herself a bit she finally recounted the story of how she knew she was late and decided to take a shortcut. A shortcut that during the day would not have been so fraught with danger. A man pinned her up against a filthy wall and tried to have his way.

“Dear God, Jo. Did he…”

“No. One of the Inspector’s men intervened in time.”

“So tell me why I must not say anything to Pearl.”

“Because she keeps me locked up in this cage as it is. She will never let me out again if she knows I was foolish enough to place myself in harms way.”

“Why do you suppose you’d be blamed, my dear?”

“Isn’t that always the case, M? For a woman, I mean? That’s what society rams down our throats, anyway. De Vere will assume I am not keen enough to be out on my own. I can’t bear losing that little bit of freedom. Please, M.”

Marcella looked at Josephine with a sad expression. “Of course, darling. It must be hard for you.”

“I’m fine,” Josephine said defiantly.

“So, which one of the constables came to your rescue?” Marcella asked, changing the subject.

“He said his name was Jedediah Shine. Do you know of him?”

Marcella crinkled her brow in thought. “I think I do. Yes. He’s one of the Inspector’s “enforcers.”

“Enforcer? He acted a proper gentleman with me.”

Marcella scoffed, “Oh, I’m sure he did. But mark my word, Jo. The man is no gentleman.”

“There are plenty of criminal blue-bloods, M.”

“But not like Shine. Yes. I remember him now. Sharp eyes, boxer, the inspector’s favorite.”

She leaned forward, “the inspector’s men are never to be trifled with, Jo. Try to make those men dance to your tune and call you a pretty piper, and someday they’ll break that fife over your head. Shine would ruin a girl like you.”

“A girl like me.”

“Yes. A girl like you. You’ve got some education, you’re beautiful, and you know there is a life beyond these corridors. Aim higher, is all I can say. Just mark my word about men like Shine. A copper he may be, but he is no more than a hired thug with the law on his side. You will do well to remember that, my dear. Be cordial, but distant.”

After a moment, Marcella continued. “Now,” she said, placing her hands on her upper thighs, I’m glad you’re alright,” she said, cutting the conversation short, “but I’ve got to ready myself. Here,” she pulled some bath oil from her vanity, “run along and clean yourself up before the doors open at 10. It won’t do to smell like the streets. You know how the bitch gets.”

Josephine took the perfume oil and nodded knowingly. Indeed she knew. Lesser crimes had beckoned the back of the woman’s hand before.

The sound of a woman yelling up the stairs made them both start.

“Jo! Where the devil is that girl!?” came the shrill, distant voice.

“Oh Lord, it’s de Vere. You best go, girl.”

*****

She tossed her skirts and top into a pile on her floor by her bed, placing her tattered copy of her book on her small bed.

Josephine, fearing that de Vere would see her lugging pails of hot water up to her hip bath, decided to clean her face, hands and neck with the tepid water from her jug and washbasin. She dabbed a little of the gardenia perfume oil on her pulse points and across her hair, however, in case she has missed any filthy evidence of her earlier encounter.

By the light of a single and flickering candle, she pinned her long, walnut brown tresses into a half-updo, allowing the rest of the curls to cascade sensually down her back. She then tied a rose-golden gossamer shift around her figure, revealing a white cotton chemise, cinched by a pink corset. Her petite legs were sheathed in white thigh-high stockings and white boots underneath.

Transformation complete, she turned left and right to check her figure, then blew out the candle.

Within the room known as the Aphrodite, the crown jewel: a lavish copper bath sheathed in a white linen sheet surrounded by a canopy of golden, shimmery drapes, all cinched by golden tassels.

Attached to the tub, a cylindrical and upstanding water heater, which can heat the water within seconds, all the latest rage, and can smart like the bloody devil when one is careless.

In a back corner, behind a discreet Oriental screen, a rather modern toilet with a high-level cistern.

Next to it, a locker on a wall, within which Josephine keeps supplies of bath oils, tinctures, ointments, and unbeknownst to anyone save herself- a supply of laudanum, cyanide, and arsenic, which all can be easily placed in the bottom of a glass in case a customer got out of hand. No one knows about these contents except for her, at the moment. She’s never lost a customer, as far as she knew. Besides, she’s only aimed to incapacitate them temporarily so that she could get herself out of harm’s way. She owed these men nothing. Absolutely nothing.

She was under no delusion of her rank. If Ms. Pearl ever found out, she be beaten and tossed out on the street, swiftly replaced by some other virgin who could hail the best price.

Unappreciative, she was, of the life of luxury de Vere provided her.

She came to the brothel at the age of 13, when she had first started to bleed. The madame, feeling strangely sentimental for the loss of her favorite whore, Josephine's mother, promised her to keep her off her back as long as possible. Now 16, Josephine knew she was on borrowed time. Any day now she would lose what was left of her virtue to some mongrel with dirt under his fingernails and a taste for pain.

Josephine shuddered. This life, she mused.

Satisfied that all was ready for the first customer of the night, Josephine headed down to the main room.

*****

Blinking against an icy wind, Jedediah blundered forward along the dank and uneven cobblestones. The air, reeking of sour spirits and dung, filled his nostrils. This is a familiar stench to him, yet he never seems to _not_ be caught off guard by it. Sleet stung his cheeks, sharp spits of ice that felt so cold they burned. His ears hurt under his helmet, which he didn't dare take off until he’s reached his destination.

It is late, later than what would be considered a respectable hour, but that doesn’t matter in Soho. Here people fall asleep when the drug takes effect. It’s the entertainment district, however one wishes to define that.

It is nearing midnight now, and in Soho, midnight is the magic hour. It’s when everything gets kicked up a notch. The booze flows into opium, cocaine, and absinthe.

The clanging sounds of pianos and music, muffled guffaws and shrieks fill the ears. This doesn't stop until sunrise.

He’s never been to Paris, but he’s heard many a gentleman drunkenly describe Soho as the French Quarter of London. It may be; honestly he couldn’t give a toss. He’s never been to Paris. London is his world. It might very well become his tomb. He may be damned here for all eternity. Wouldn't that just be right, he laughs to himself darkly, that London Town would be his Hell.

He should feel blessed to be a young man, untethered by a marriage, stationed here in the entertainment district. Jedediah instead feels no such blessing, however. He works too hard. He does not understand leisure. That's a gentlemanly notion. And he ain't no gentleman.

He isn’t that far from whence he hails in Bethnal Green, yet it feels like a completely different world. Toddlers with hollowed and dirty feet aren’t playing with the bones of dead carcasses, men aren’t left for dead on the street corner, a policeman nowhere in sight. In Soho, there is at least the illusion of prosperity, and the semblance of police presence. One could gamble one’s luck and possibly make a fortune, though it was unlikely, because no gambling hall he knew of actually allowed a pay-out. The amount of gin and drug made the loss a bit easier, he imagined.

Drugs. The fortune he could make selling this particular type of ware. It made him dizzy considering it. Why not meet the demand? Why not make a profit from that demand? Why not indeed. He had to make his connections first, rise out of the lowly rank of Constable- get some clout to his name. Maybe get a fancy waistcoat and a proper tie. Still no gentleman, but he could do with a bit of flash.

First things first. He needed to see the boss tonight.

He closed his fist around the ornate brass bar of the Maison d’Envie, owned by Ms. Pearl de Vere, and more recently fallen under the protection of Jedediah’s superior, D.I. Thomas Pankhurst, and swung it open.


	3. Chapter 3

Stepping inside, Jedediah's senses were assaulted. The cold flesh of his cheeks tingled with warmth radiating from the chandeliers and lively people. He could smell good liquor and beer, and somewhere in the corner a grande piano- from which the most elegant music was produced.

The Maison d’Envie, an old brothel, first established when the Huguenots ruled this district. A reputable establishment, employing its own doctor, and offering the services of fine, fine women.

Well, they seem like fine women.  Fearing the risk of venereal diseases, he had thus far abstained from partaking of these particular goods. Though if forced, he might be able to muster the strength.

He did not care for the idea of sharing, frankly. Though, again, if he were in a pinch...

Most likely the largest reason that he had not yet tasted the goods of Maison d'Envie-his mother, a devout Irish Catholic. He didn't really believe in God like her, he was too modern and too sinful for that. God had no day to day presence in his life. No. If Jedediah Shine feared anything, it’s the judgement of Ada O’Seighin. And she would judge. Harshly. And do it while looking at him with a crushing look of disappointment as she brandished a wooden ladle and in the middle of the lane, ensuring his reputation among the local Irish women would be ruined for an age.

Shaking the thought of his long-suffering mother as he stands in the entrance of a brothel, Jedediah removed his helmet finally.

The Inspector was no doubt up in the upstairs office, holding court. And Jedediah was late.

He spied all the regular customers by the fire. Some drunk, some just merry. Most with fine looking ladies draped over them, hoping for a bit of coin for their troubles.

Heading for the grand, sweeping staircase, he flies up them two, three at a time and enters the room.

Inspector Pankhurst, a handsome and greedy man in his 50s, sits behind a desk with a murderous glint of anger in his eye.

“Are you still listening, Sergeant? This here is the man who thinks of everything,” he said, pointing at Jedediah. “Ahhh, nice of you to join us, Shine.”

“Apologies, Inspector,” Jedediah retorted, walking over to a window sill and leaning against it.

“As I was saying, this is the guy who is always with me now because he fucking thinks of everything. Anything I might overlook, Shine’s on it. A bloody fucking Constable is on it. More dependable than his fucking superior, though perhaps not as prompt.”

Sergeant March glanced up at Shine, who met his gaze and held it.

“Yeah, and don’t I fucking know it,” March said with disdain.

“Oy!” the Inspector banged his fist onto the top of desk for emphasis, “you watch your bloody tongue, Sergeant!” His voice an angry crescendo, “if you hadn’t had your pencil dick up one o’ these cunts’ skirts, you would have noticed that the Commissioner was on the premises!” His bellows rang off the frosted glass of the windows.

Jedediah felt the cold leaded pane shake against his back.

The Inspector shot up from his chair, causing it to fall back with a clatter. Perambulating around the desk and the Sergeant, who looked about nervously, the inspector collected himself and spoke in an eerily calm voice, “now, Sergeant. Let me tell you something. You’ve got one job and one job only. It’s to protect our freedom in this district. You lose your wits and you stop protecting your men. You lose your efficacy in this division. Am I understood, sir?"

“Yes, sir,” the Sergeant said, properly admonished.

“Now, get out, Sergeant!” he bellowed. “Get the fuck out of my sight!”

Shine could see the sweat like a layer of frost across the man's brow. He felt it best to wait for the Inspector to address him before he said anything.

“Why were you late, Constable?” The Inspector’s question came out on an exasperated sigh as he threw himself down in his chair.

“I had to take a man back to the station and book him, sir. Attackin’ a girl inside an alleyway. Then there was a rumpus up near Greek. Then--”

“Good, good," he interrupted. "This isn’t bloody bedlam. We need order. And we are the thin line between order and chaos in this great city, are we not, Constable?” He emptied the contents of his cocaine dropper onto his tongue and swallowed with a shudder.

“We are, sir.”

“Now to the reason I’ve summoned you,” he said, replacing the dropper into the small bottle and hiding it away in his desk. “There is a man who owes me a large sum of rent. He is in arrears. You know the man. Dutchman. You’ve already been to visit twice. I need you to just take care of it for me, Shine.”

‘Yes, sir.”

“He’ll be alone in his shop on Whitechapel Road at this time tomorrow. You will take my hansom. My driver knows where to go.” His gaze settled on Shine’s face. “Then it’s the river for him. Understand, Constable?”

“Understood, sir.”

“It never troubles you,” the Inspector mused.

“Troubles me, sir?”

“This work I have you do. It never seems to cause you any discomfit.”

“As long as I get paid…”

“Ah, of course.” The Inspector pulled out a wad of notes and tossed them on the desk. “Here’s an advance. You’ll get the rest when I know the man is dealt with.

Shine reached for the wad and nodded in thanks.

“There's that, then. Now, let’s talk divisional championship and strategy. I’ve got some men, some influential men at the Yard, who wish to place a wager on the Championship. They wager a rookie like you ain’t going to beat the returning champ. I would love to shut those bastards up. Once and for all. You think you can win, Constable?”

“I know I can, sir,” Jedediah said without hesitation.

The Inspector poured himself a shot of whiskey. Holding it up to Shine, “Here’s to victory, then."

*****

Jedediah descended the grand staircase with a sudden rush of dog-tiredness. He raked a hand through his hair and blinked his eyes to focus on the steps beneath him.

Josephine ascended the stairs, escorted by a man.  

He saw her face tilt up, eyes full of promise, dark eyelashes fluttering against her cheeks, lips parted slightly.

Their eyes met and he paused, which made her pause on a higher step. They were eye to eye now.

Dangerously intimate.

Jedediah looked beyond her at the customer, who was not expecting to have to pause. He felt a tiny maelstrom of emotion suddenly. A slight hunger emerged, a restless and irrational anger roiled, and he considered striking out at the customer. The beast inside him prowled like a caged wolf inside his chest.

Not just a seamstress, then. The thought came and went as he suddenly noticed her creamy mounds, dangerously toppling over the top of her corset, so very close to his face now. What if he just...

Josephine gestured for her customer to continue, that she would only be a moment.

An ephemeral scent of gardenia enveloped him in her presence.

“Constable Shine. How are you?” She was out of breath suddenly.

“‘I’m well,” he said, gathering his wits. “You are looking quite recovered.”

Jedediah stared into her eyes, then his gaze dropped, unbidden, to her lips.

Color flooded her cheeks. “I am indeed. Thank you.”

An awkward beat occurred as she realized he understood she was not just a seamstress.

“Have a lovely evening, Ms. Wilde,” Jedediah broke the silence and looked on.

“Likewise,” she returned with a smile he did not see.

Josephine gathered her gossamer skirt and returned to her customer, apologizing for the brief word she had to have with one of the Inspector’s men regarding a recent break-in. He nodded, accepting her apology, though he thought to himself he would have a word with Ms. de Vere about the unfortunate delay. For the sake of the house’s reputation, of course.


	4. Chapter 4

He knew he shouldn’t be here, but he couldn’t extract the look of those breasts that were so deliciously pinched by the corset.

And the way her eyes looked upon him. Hungry eyes, they were. Full of promise. She'd been surprised to see him. 

He’d been surprised to see her tarted up like the rest of those women. Surprised, and a little disappointed. But then, there was some other feeling knocking on his door.  


Seeing her with a man, knowing full well what she was about to do--he had wanted to crush the man’s nose with his meaty fist. 

“How experienced was she?” He pondered. 

He grunted like a bull, his nostrils producing white puffs of air.

He felt foolish. He shouldn’t have expected anything else from the girl, should he have?

He ignored the feeble voice in his head that told him she owed him nothing.

His pride suggested a wound somewhere, somehow. 

Whatever it was, it had shot straight down into his groin and he needed release. Because for the life of him, the vision of those breasts inside that unforgiving corset made him want to throw someone through a tree. He wanted to suckle them, taste her skin, smell her arousal as she responded to his touch. His touch. No other man's touch.  


So he forgot about his earlier exhaustion, his lonely, rented room,  and headed straight for where he ought not be.

*****

He couldn’t remember when it started. He just remembered how forward the married woman had been, how desired she had made him feel. How eager he was to prove himself a man.

Jedediah threw his legs over the sill and jumped down into the study. He quietly closed the window, then the drapes behind him. 

She appeared in the hallway, barefoot, shivering in her thin nightgown. Her collarbones protruded above the loosened collar, one bare shoulder exposed. Her blonde hair was in a loose braid, which hung over one shoulder.

Isabelle wasn’t particularly beautiful, but she was sensual. 

20 years his senior. She was no girl; she was a woman. A woman who had tutored him on how to make love properly. A woman neglected by a selfish man, driven by loneliness and quiet revenge. And a taste for a slum dog.  


This woman is what he needed right now. 

The two stared at each other yet said nothing. Then, by tacit understanding, Isabelle turned and lead the way into her bedroom. 

“I’ve not bathed tonight,” she blurted out as she shut the door behind them. 

“Me neither,” he murmured huskily, as he undid his tunic and reached for the buttons on his trousers, sitting down on the edge of the bed. His Inspector’s marriage bed.

On her knees, she reached into the open vent and found wiry hair, humid heat, unmistakable male arousal.

He liked this about her- the way she cut to it. Sometimes she seemed more man than woman in her disposition. He supposed being brutalized by a cold loneliness that marriage gave you will do that to you. 

Gently, but firmly she grasped him, encircling the upper part of his manhood. She could feel a thin thread of arousal drip from the engorged head that protruded from her fingers.

Slowly, Isabelle grazed the throbbing head with her lips and lapped it up.

His flesh jerked.

_ White stockings. _

Jedediah’s hands were fisted at his side. He threw his head back and sighed heavily. The muscles in his exposed throat were corded, as if he were in extreme agony...or extreme ecstasy.

_ Creamy mounds. _

Isabelle nuzzled him, taking in his scent. Then, she took the plum-shaped tip between her lips, her mouth opening wider, wider still until she encompassed his full circumference. 

He flexed inside the circle of her fingers, as if in approval.

“ _ Constable Shine _ .”

Large, rough hands banded Isabelle’s neck.

His eyelids grew heavy. 

_ Jesus God _ , he thought.  _ Jesus God _ .

She felt his cock grow harder, harder still. She knew he was close. 

Isabelle drew deeply on the flesh in her mouth, suckling him greedily.

She felt rough fingers dig into the base of her head.

_ “Faster, _ ” he groaned.

Isabelle responded, feeling the masculine strength of his hand..

_ Hungry eyes. _

He grabbed her head with both hands suddenly. A hoarse growl erupted from him. 

“ _ Jo _ -,” he caught himself before he said her name.

She felt a surge hit the back of her throat, hot and thick. She swallowed, savoring every last bit of his pleasure. 

Breathing heavily, he placed both hands on the side of her head and  swooped down, stealing her breath. He closed his eyes, grinding his lips against hers, plunging his tongue between her teeth. Not Isabelle’s teeth.

Then he wrapped his arms around her neck as she stayed on her knees, embracing her. 

“Thank you,” he said finally. 

She stood up, kissing him on his forehead. He wrapped his arms around her waist, burying the side of his face in her stomach. 

She ran her fingers through his unruly hair. When she turned he grasped one of her hands. She thought he looked like a boy suddenly. Perhaps a little sad.

“No, we’re not done,” he declared. He had not fully removed Josephine’s breasts from his mind. 

“Jedediah, I told you. I'm not clean.” 

“And I’m telling you we are not done,” his Cockney purred in her ear, sending chills down her spine. “Pankhurst has most likely discovered the perfect balance between cocaine and opium and is presently unconscious upon the velvet divan inside the main office." He stood up and playfully tossed her on her back. "Your husband will be not be home this night, my dear."  


*****

Josephine padded across the cold tile floor towards the copper bathtub and turned the cocks on the copper heater. The resulting roar of cascading water splashed into the empty bath.

Her night was over, as far as the men were concerned. She had on her nightgown and silk kimono robe and smelled of perfumed water and minty tooth powder. When she had earlier plunged herself into the hot water she had hoped to wash away the memories of the day, the near rape, the hungry look Jedediah Shine gave her when he stood with her in front of the brothel, the different kind of hungry look he gave her when he realized what she was. Fear, dim hope, now dashed hope. How foolish she was.  


Now she was just exhausted. But this little Irish boy who lived in the house was in dire need of a bath. And since her mind raced, she thought she’d take care of it now- despite the late hour.

“Albie, undress yourself and jump in the bath, please, sir,” she said sweetly. 

“Is it boiling, Jo? I don’t want to be no porched egg,” the little boy’s Irish brogue rang in her ears.

She shushed him gently. “You don’t have to yell just because the water is loud. And you mean ‘poached,’ not ‘porched.’ ‘I don’t want to be a poached egg.’”

“What I said.”

The boy dipped one filthy toe into the water and winced. 

Josephine turned and tested the water. “It’s not hot. You’re being a ninny.”

“I’m NOT being a ninny! Yer a ninny!” He laughed as he fell into the bath, banging his bottom on the copper bath. “Ayyyy, my arse!”

“Albert Flight,” she said, scolding him lightly. “Now see, that’s what you get when you’re a smart alec.”

She rolled up her sleeves and knelt beside the bath. Lathering the shampoo in his hair, careful not to get it in his eyes, the boy started reciting numbers and letters. 

“Have you been reading the book I gave you?” she asked him, grabbing the sponge and trying to lave off the soot that had somehow found its way behind his ears and on the back of his neck. Honestly, how can a boy get so dirty?

“I have, miss. I like the old lobster!”

“Yes, I’d thought you’d like that one,” she said with a smile. 

Just then a knock came at the door. She dropped the sponge in the water and told him to clean his private bits and toes. “I’ll be right back.”

Albert glanced back and saw Josephine talking to Ms. Pearl. The older woman never directly looked at him, which made him feel very awkward. She simply had him lug pails of hot water up to the dormitory or to Jo’s garret room in the attic. He didn’t know what Pearl was saying to Jo, but he could tell by her body language that there was something wrong. When Jo turned to look at him, he turned back abruptly to play with the sponge. He thought he overheard her say to Jo a “never do that again,” and an “important man,” and then it seemed like the Madame clapped her hands. How odd that she would clap her hands together. 

When Jo returned to the bathtub he saw that her cheek was red and her eyes glistened.

A line formed on Albert’s brow. “Jo?”

“It’s nothing. Nothing. Keep washing,” she ordered, distracted, as she placed her hands on her hips and went behind the Oriental screen for a moment. 

She closed the toilet seat and sat down, staring at nothing by her feet for a good long while. The man had complained to de Vere. Under no circumstances was she to ever tell any paying customer to wait. He told her she had behaved most salaciously while throwing herself at a policeman on the steps as he waited patiently for the exceedingly and humiliatingly long conversation to conclude. 

She blew her nose and wiped her eyes, standing and tossing the soft paper into the toilet, then pulled the handle to the cistern.  She watched as the the gurgling water took the evidence of her sorrows down into the Great Unknown. 


	5. Chapter 5

The coal grate was piled low in the upstairs office. It was chilly, but comfortable.

A milky light silhouetted Pankhurst as he, long legs and arms, squared shoulders, dwarfed the duchess chair that held him. He hurt this morning. Too many years of being inside the ring, too many injuries, too much living has taken a toll on the man. The walking stick he wields is not only aesthetic. It holds a functional purpose now.

In front of him, at the same table and bent over the night’s receipts, Pearl de Vere. She in her black damask and silk, her decolletage looking scrumptious and full. Her dark hair, beginning to show the silver signs of age, was piled in a high updo, held together with glistening pins. Her shining pince-nez, reflecting the light from the window, blinding him occasionally as her head bobbed and turned.

Beyond her, high on the mahogany wall, an oil painting of a woman hung from brass cords.

“So it vexes you that she was speaking with one of my men on the stairs,” he says with a groan.

The metal nib of de Vere’s pen made a disapproving sound.

_scratch-scratch._

“It bloody well does- at least when she is with a customer. I have a business to run, here Thomas.”

“And I and the men of my division, your protector, Emmeline.”

She pauses her writing and looks up at him with a flat expression. He was the only man she had ever let call her by her real name.

“Then tell your men to keep their hands off my girls. They’re bad for business.”

He gets up from the chair with a groan, limping over to the window and looks down on the muddy streets. “What is it really that bothers you. That it was Shine?” He looked back at her for her answer.

She tilted her head and gave him a look that said “you know it is.”

“That bastard won’t cause harm to your precious virgin.”

“She is precious because of who she is. Not what she is. And I don't want that gutter rat sullying her. She's made of better ilk.”

Pankhurst scoffed. “Tell me, how much is a virgin going for these days?”

“On the streets, 5 pounds. Give or take.”

“Ha!” he tossed his head back. “I knew you would have investigated it. Knowing, of course, that you could far surpass that by the clientele of this house. How much do you believe Josephine’s maidenhead would go for at the Maison?”

“The bid is up to three hundred pounds sterling.”

“Good lord, you’ve started the bidding?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“What’s your goal?”

"I have no goal exactly." She thought for a moment. "When I’ve received the amount I want,” was her answer.

“And how much would that be, my dear?”

De Vere went back to her receipts and ledger. “I haven’t decided yet,” she said distractedly.

“Does she know? Young Josephine? That her benefactress auctions off her virtue to the highest bidder?”

With an exasperated sigh, she looked back up at him. “Tommy, I don’t intend to actually sell her virginity. Not yet, leastwise. For now, I’m using it as a marketing ploy.”

She felt his cold smirk upon her as she stood up in a huff and sidled over to the portrait of Agnethe on the mahogany wall. “Tell me, Inspector, is anything more alluring, more enticing than that which is unattainable?” It was rhetorical. She did not wait for him to answer.

“Her mother, Agnethe,  was precious to me. The day I lost her was the day I began to mourn her passing, though her physical death came 10 years later. She was pregnant, you see, and I tried to forcefeed her pennyroyal tea. The seed was stubborn.  I pleaded with her to stay, begged her forgiveness. But the father, Joseph, he was in love with her, paid for her in full to leave the Maison and be with him. I was powerless to stop it. She hated me after."

“She was beautiful,” he offered, “as is her daughter. Perhaps moreso.” Pankhurst observed.

“Indeed. I never thought I’d see the likes of her beauty in these corridors after Agnethe left. When I saw little Josephine it was at the funeral. Her hair was braided and ribboned. Coquettish and pouty with the wide Norse cheekbones of her mother’s people, the full passionate Irish eyes of her father. My heart fell.  I beheld in her face not one primitive desire in the minds of men she would not fulfill.

“As a child, I kept her hidden, away from the perverted eyes of any bastards who long for little girls to satisfy their fetishes. That’s not the kind of house I lead, as anyone who deals with me knows.

“Then, slowly, I began to introduce her to the parlor. A night here, a night there. Finally, when she was 15, I set about educating her on the ways of the flesh, make her illuminated as I became in mid-century Paris. She is as knowledgeable of bringing pleasure to the male mind, body and soul as the highest paid courtesan in Paris. She did not shy away from my lessons. She excelled, as a matter of fact. She is a lover to her marrow. Playful, imaginative, fearless.

"But things are changing. I can feel her mind starting to grow more and more restless. She seeks a way to undermine my order and be her own master. My compromise was to allow her an hour or two each day to walk about the city. It isn’t enough, however.

"She uses that mind of hers, you see, and understands what it is that men want the most.”

“And that is?” Pankhurst sat on the divan, legs akimbo.

“Why don’t you tell me, Tommy?”

Thinking of his own wife, “men want a woman who won’t tell them no.”

She nodded in approval. “And?”

“Men wish to be reminded of how good life can be.”

“And what else?”

“I can’t think of anything else.”

“Men want emotional connection.”

Pankhurst cocked his head at her. “Oh come, Emme. Emotional connection? We are not boys yearning for their mothers.”

She walked around the desk slowly. She hiked up her skirts, and straddled him, the palms of her hands on his shoulders.  He looked up at her. “Of course, you want the woman to want your cock inside of them.” She ground her pelvis toward him slowly. He groaned, stomach aching. “You want your woman to want to suckle your manhood and drain you for every last drop as though she received life from it as she did.” Her lips were so close to his he could smell a faint aroma of coffee.

"But deep down, underneath the hard scars, you are a boy, are you not. Why else would you feel a tightening in your groin at the site of a babe suckling his mother’s tit? You long to do the same. You wish to find that pure connection to a woman, to be held by her, to be warmed by her, to be accepted fully. You long for the woman to look at you as though you still have a soul.”

He swallowed hard.

“You could have sold her to upper class men who enjoy deflowering little girls. More money than you can imagine. Far higher than deflowering women ready for marriage. Why didn’t you?”

Emmeline stared at Pankhurst but said nothing.

“Ah, you do care for her. Just a tiny bit, do you not?”

The door swung open, a constable stood before them now.

“Sir, you wished to see me?” Jedediah Shine stood at attention, then realized the moment he had interrupted. “Apologies, sir.”

Emmeline pulled herself off of Pankhurst and straightened her skirts.

“It’s alright, Constable,” he said shifting himself on the divan. “Ms. de Vere, would you be so kind as to give me a chance to speak with my man alone?”

“Of course, Inspector,” she said, with a slight nod of her head.

When the door was shut, Pankhurst began. “All in order for this evening?”

“‘Tis, sir.”

“Who are you taking with you.”

“I was thinking, sir, it might be best if I handle this job on me own.”

“No, take Hirsch. He’s strong, quiet. He’ll be a good lookout and an extra pair of hands if necessary.”

“Alright, sir.”

“Good. Good. Did you speak with Josephine on the stairs last night while she was working?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And why’s that?”

“Just saying how do, sir.”

Pankhurst guffawed at this. “Shine, we’re all just sayin’ how do in this place, are we not? Tell me, what was your business with the girl?”

“I had found her in an alleyway earlier that day, sir. A drunkard overtook her. I intervened. I thought to say hello, check on her.”

“Does de Vere know about the attack?”

“I’m not sure, sir. But, the girl did ask me when I escorted her back to the house not to tell her. She feared de Vere might take away some privileges if she knew.”

“Well, I won’t mention it. Just remember, Josephine still has her virtue intact, and that is by design, you see. Whatever services Jo offers the men, she mustn’t be seen as compromised in any way.” Pankhurst noticed a reaction from the constable, one that he seemed to attempt to hide immediately.

“What is it, son? Did you not know she was a virgin?”

“Makes no difference to me, sir,” Shine lied.

“De Vere is using it to keep the customers’ interest. Brilliant. Has an auction going,” he laughed.

Shine did not react.

“Right, right,” Pankhurst said, not quite convinced. “In any case, before you go," he said, rubbing his belly, "would you go down to the scullery and see about getting me some pennyroyal tea? If there is none there, Josephine keeps a locker full of essential oils in the bath chamber. You will most likely find some there.”

*****

Shine entered the bath chamber. His eyes searched the room for the locker. There, behind the copper bathtub, the likes of which he had never seen before, he found the metal container that was nailed to the wall. Finding it locked, he set about with a switchblade to wrench it open. His senses were immediately assaulted by the aromas of fresh herb and flower.

Lavender, mint, olive, gardenia. Then, behind them, tiny, unmarked bottles. He picked one up and smelled it and grimaced. Arsenic. Then another - cyanide. What was Josephine doing with these in here?

“May I help you?” A feminine voice came from behind.

He did not move for a moment. Spying the pennyroyal oil he picked it up and turned. Josephine. She was wearing a day skirt, blouse and a pinafore. She had folded towels in her arms. Her hair was loose, curly, wild.

He stared evenly for a moment. “I look for pennyroyal oil,” he said finally.

“For what purpose?” she asked, walked to a shelf and placed the towels down. He sensed the slightest restlessness in her voice.

“The Inspector has requested pennyroyal tea. Said you might have something to make it with in here.”

She walked up to him and shut the door of the locker. “You will not find anything of use to you here. I’ll make a fresh batch of the tea and deliver it to him.”

What was she hiding?

“No, you will show me the pennyroyal and I will watch you as you make it.” She noted with fire the sudden suspicion in his voice.

“Alight. I’ll show you where the pennyroyal is for tea. And you can watch me as I make it.” 

*****

He followed her up a flight of stairs. “Where do you take me?”

“To the roof. I grow the pennyroyal up here. It needs sunlight.”

They stepped outside. He looked around. A sea of blackened and smoking chimneys surrounded them.

“It’s just here.” He turned his head and saw a small greenhouse of herbs and flowers. Roses and ivy. Was this her garden? She entered the structure and reappeared with a posey of the minty smelling herb.

“What is it used for?”

“Had you made a tea with the pennyroyal oil from my locker, you would have killed your superior within a matter of hours. A teaspoon of oil ingested can see a man never wake again. But, if you make a tea from the leaves of the herb, it can...get things moving, if you get my meaning.”

“The Inspector enjoys the pipe a bit too much.”

“Is that what happens when you smoke opium?”

“You do it enough, yes.”

“Hm. Well, my guess is, the Inspector is in need of some assistance emptying himself out. Pennyroyal tea has other uses, of course, but that is none of your concern."

Ignoring her tone, he watched as a patch of sunlight caressed her hair and cheek. As she spoke to him, he saw that her cheeks were slightly rosy, as though pink satin attempted to escape from just underneath the thin skin.

The cold wind blew her hair nearly upright. She shuddered in response. Cursing the wind, he led her back inside.  

Before she stepped down onto the first step, an arm shot around her waist and she was pulled and turned, then backed up against the wall.

“What do you think you’re doing?” She whispered harshly. His arms a meaty cage around her.  

“Why do you have such poisons alongside your bath oils?” His question was a caress, a lovely veiled caress with a hidden threat.

“They are none of your concern,” she said with as little heat as possible, but without hesitation, knowing full well he had the advantage. “A girl must protect herself. You said so yourself, did you not?”

She heard him make a very masculine sound deep in his throat.

He watched her moist lips moving, trembling slightly. He then met her gaze and held it there, trying to read her. She struggled to block him. He knew it.

“With a dagger, Josephine. Poison is a different game altogether.”

“It’s no game to me, I can assure you.” Her eyes became very serious.

“I ask again. Why would a young girl such as yourself keep them next to bath oils. How often do you use them on your customers?”

“They are... a precaution.”

“They can kill, Josephine. Does de Vere know you have them in your possession?”

“Of course not. She would throw me out on the street if she found out.”

“Then, girl,  best you tell me why and how you have them.” When she did not respond, he continued. “You know if a man was found deceased under your care and those were found on you you could hang. You know that, don’t you? God forbid you kill a policeman.”

She wanted to escape his gaze.

Her lip trembled slightly.

They heard footsteps ascending quickly on the lower stairs.

He dropped one arm. She exhaled.

“Has anyone died?” he asked her quietly.

“No.” She said definitively. “Not that I know of,” she said less so.

He looked at her in incredulity.

“Jo? Are you up there?” A woman's voice.

“Yes, I’m here, Lucy. I've got your mending. I’ll come see you in two ticks,” she called down, never taking her eyes off his. “Jedediah, I will tell you why I have them. But not here. Not now.”

He considered allowing it. But when she tried to leave his arm shot back up again. His body moved into hers, pushing her against the wall. She stared at his chest, believing he was at war with what he wanted to do. She felt him inhale, then his lips came a hair’s width from her temple.  

He could feel her breathing. He imagined her legs wrapped around his waist.

She closed her mouth and breathed steadily through her nose, fighting to compose herself. _I will not fear you._

Narrowing her eyes, she lifted her chin at him. “I said not here. Not now.”

After a beat, he released her. She gathered her skirts and descended the stairs as though nothing happened.

*****

When they reached the scullery, she set him to work boiling water. She rolled up her shirtsleeves and got to work.

Before she began she turned and faced him with a glare. “It’s not always easy for us here, you know. No, of course you don’t know. You couldn’t know. Was I born a man and strong like you, strong enough to push a small woman against the wall and assert my dominance like a bloody mongrel, I'd have a myriad of choices at my fingertips. Choices that didn't involve purchasing such things. As it stands, however, these tools are all we, my sex, have at our disposal.”

Jedediah listened. He felt like very large compared to her suddenly. "Who sold you the other chemicals?" He asked.

"A chemist."

"Which chemist?"

"The one on Princelet St. in Whitechapel."

He shook his head. "No real chemist holds a stall on Princelet, Josephine."

"Jo. Just Jo."

“Have you had to use the cyanide as of yet, _Jo_?” he asked.

“No,” she answered honestly. He believed her. He also believed she would have the knackers to use it if she had to.

She stopped, staring into the bowl. She paused as if she wanted to say something more but stopped herself.

She added a dash of this, a dash of that, then plopped the concoction into the water.

“There’s your tea,” she said finally. "The Inspector should have results in close to an hour.” And with that, she turned.

He grabbed her arm and turned her. "Eh, eh. I promise I will not utter a word of this to anyone. Friends do not break trust with one another." His tone then turned silver. "Shall we be friends, you and I?"

She wrenched her arm out of his grasp then wordlessly turned and walked away.

*****

Josephine ran up to the bath chamber and shut the door. Locking it, she leaned against it and composed herself. She was breathtakingly conscious of the rhythmic rise and fall of her breasts in the stiff caress of her corset.

She checked the contents of the locker.

 _Damn that dirty lout. He broke the bloody lock._ How would she explain this to de Vere?

She grabbed a towel and spread it open in the cradle of her left hand. Carefully, she removed each one of her secret bottles laid them down like kippers. She would need to find a new home for them for the time being. She swaddled them, placing the bundle in the crook of her arm and made for the door.

She slowed. She could not forget the press of his body on hers. His eyes. The way he seemed to read her lips as she spoke.

Liquid heat spread through her stomach.

As if in a daze, she placed the bundle on the floor. She lay down on the chaise lounge by the window and dragged one hand up her thigh.

Her breathing intensified.

She lifted her skirt. Trailed a line up her own leg... Her lips were moist, swollen with need.

Her eyelids became heavy. She swallowed hard.

She could smell a trace of him on her.

Her fingers became his fingers.

Her touch became his touch.

Her hand became his hand.


	6. Chapter 6

“...He’s half-blind, mind, but doesn’t take the thing off. And then he says, “Madam!” he says, and bows as if I was the queen or something. So he says, “Madam, I must warn you.” And he fumbles on his trousers - doesn’t even take off his coat or nothin', but goes straight to his trousers and says, “Madam, I must warn you. My tool may not fit!”

Jedediah overheard the jovial conversation between a few of the whores, trying to keep his smirk hidden.

He repeatedly took out his pocketwatch to check the time. One more hour and Hirsch would be waiting for him in the rear courtyard with the carriage.

He would kill a man tonight.

His gaze settled on a woman who sat opposite him in the grand parlor.

“Will the Constable be wantin’ wine, then? Or whiskey?”

He was unawares that Lucy had sidled up to him.

“Neither, Ms. Lucy. Got to keep my wits about me this night.”

Lucy followed his eyes over to a divan, upon which sat Josephine, her hair half up, the rest tumbling down her bare shoulders sensuously.

He watched her chatting with a woman, Marcella, he thinks her name was. An older woman, but one to whom Josephine seemed attached.

Blue eyes met green.

“Tonight her beau arrives,” she said, nodding her head towards Josephine.

Jedediah stopped. “Beau, you say?” he asked half-interested.

“Oh, aye,” Lucy said. “The ‘ouse sawbone. Warner. ‘E fancies her somethin’ fierce. Word ‘as it that ‘e may be itchin’ to take ‘er away from these corridors and make an ‘onest woman of ‘er.”

“Well, that’s right good for ‘er then, is it not?”

“Indeed,” she agreed. Then, after a beat, “You fancy a look-see at what she does with ‘im, Constable?”

Jedediah glanced down at the woman.

“There’s a side corridor upstairs, which you will reach from the large cabinet in the upstairs office. If you can open it, you’ll find a narrow hallway and a looking glass or two that is silvered on only one side.”

Jedediah’s head cocked a little.

“Oh yes, the corridor is dark so she won’t know you’re spyin’ on ‘er.” Lucy’s mouth broke into a sly grin, her tarnished teeth exposed fully. “Ah, there ‘e is. Dr. Robert Warner. We all calls ‘im Dr. Bob.”

Jedediah watched as the young man stepped into the parlor and eagerly took his coat and hat off, handing them to the porter. He spied Josephine immediately.

Jedediah watched as she acknowledged the doctor. She stood up, her held out hand meeting his own, which he kissed ardently.

Josephine felt Jedediah’s approach before she actually saw him come towards her.

“How do, Jo? You’re looking fine, as usual.”

The doctor’s face fell slightly as he looked with slight annoyance upon the intruder.

“Jedediah. And how are you this evening?” Josephine looked at him with eyes that asked “What do you think you are doing?”

“Is this the house sawbones, then? Warner, is it?”

“I am indeed.”

“Constable Jedediah Shine, sir. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.” He held out his hand, gripping the doctor’s enthusiastically.

“The pleasure’s mine, I’m sure-” the young doctor’s voice faltered audibly, color flooded his cheek as he tried with difficulty to not appear affected by the man’s strength in front of the woman.

Josephine watched the display with a glint of humor and outrage combined.

The doctor laughed, embarrassed. “You’re the Inspector’s boxer, I presume?”

“Indeed I am. How did you know?”

“I’m afraid your grip betrays you,” Warner said.

“Apologies, doctor. I’m accustomed to rough handling.”

‘Yes, well, I would imagine the men you face require such roughness, Constable. Alas, the bodies I face tend not to put up a fight.” He looked at Josephine and smirked. Then looking at Jedediah, “on account that they are typically anesthetized. In my line of work, all one needs is a steady hand and a brain. What is it, exactly, that your line of work requires, Constable, besides a rough hand?”

Amusement left Jedediah’s brow.

The room quieted.

Then, with a good-humored clap on the shoulder, which sent the doctor forward a foot on his feet, Jedediah guffawed and said loudly, “there’s the good Doctor Warner! It takes a great deal of strength to walk in these boots, I assure you! Good evenin’ to you sir.” And with a nod towards Josephine, his eyes becoming dark, “And to you, Miss.”

She nodded in response, “Shall we?” she asked a little breathlessly as she snaked her arm around the doctor’s.

She felt his eyes on the back of their heads as they ascended the staircase.

*****

Jedediah prowled the empty upstairs office, steering clear of the windows, listening for signs of approaching boots. He found the long wooden cabinet. Felt the sides, the top, trying to find a latch, a button, something.

_Click_

Lucy was right. It was a door.

He stepped into a dark corridor.

The door swished closed behind him.

He whirled around.

The door had not locked.

His heart raced.

This was foolish of him.

He might get caught.

The corridor had splashes of light at intervals that reflected off the opposite wall.

His senses raised. He was tugged forward, pulled by a carnal longing and curiosity.

Pulse pounding inside his ears, he stepped up to the first portal.

Brilliant light illuminated a plush bedchamber. It was the bedchamber attached to the bathing chamber.

It was empty.

He stepped up to the second window and froze.

The doctor and Josephine. He, naked from head to toe. She, sheathed in her gossamer robe, pearls hanging from her neck down the crease of her bosom. Her hands on him.

They kissed, lips brushing, clinging, devouring.

They embraced, breasts to chest, stomach to stomach, thighs to thighs.

He stepped into the bath, hands gripping either side as he lowered himself.

Jedediah shut his eyes. Bothered by the nagging feeling of rejection that had somehow invaded his chest.

He opened them again. Forcing himself to watch. He had come this far, he would not allow himself to turn back now.

He looked on while she caressed him, laved his neck and chest, lower, lower still. The doctor’s eyes closed, his head back in the pleasure of it.

He watched as Josephine moved to the other side of the bath, facing the looking glass.

As she stroked and tugged the doctor, her mouth parted slightly and she glanced up at the glass.

Jedediah held his breath and backed up to the wall behind him.

She stared at the glass, sensing the pair of eyes that witnessed her ministrations.

He was sure she saw him.

She was sure it was him.

She held Jedediah’s gaze as she pulled and stroked.

It was a race to completion.

Warner threw his head back, rolling it from side to side. His face flushed, his mouth open. He was either crying out or gasping for air. Jedediah could not tell.

Jedediah’s mouth was dry.

A hand came up to her face, curling around her head, pulling her down to his lips.

She lowered, never once taking her eyes off of the mirror, and kissed the oblivious man in the bath.

Warner shuddered as Josephine stole his breath; stole his moans.

Jedediah swallowed hard.

He felt raw need.

He felt raw desire.

He wanted to feel her hot, wet silk stretch to accommodate him.

His cock twitched.

He had to go.

Now.

Hirsch would be waiting for him in the back courtyard.

He felt a kind of madness overtake him. The thrill of the oncoming kill, single-minded in its intent, its drive.

Later that night, as he silenced the man’s brief screams he would not be there. He would be in the bathtub looking into Josephine’s hungry eyes.

As he wrapped up the lifeless body, he would be thinking of Josephine sheathed in her gossamer and flimsy robe, her string of pearls cleaving her bosom.

As he watched the dark and murky waters of the Thames swallow the body greedily, he felt the pressure of Josephine clamping her lips onto his, stealing his breath as his moans filled her lungs.


	7. Chapter 7

Josephine lay cocooned in her bed in a thin cotton nightgown, still awake long after the house had shut its doors to the paying customers.

She knew she should probably sleep, but her candle stubbornly clung to what was left of its life. Therefore, she kept reading, determined to finish the book before its light extinguished forever.

A scrape of boot then a tiny knock on her door made her start. No one is this high in the house at this time of night. No one. Was someone hurt?

She padded across the cold rug towards the door on her tippy toes.  Her heart slammed against her chest. 

Leaning towards it she muttered quietly, “hello?”

“It’s me, Jed,” came the whispered response.

Eyes wide, she glanced nervously about the room before wrenching the old door open as quietly as she could.

He stood on the landing in tea colored civvies.

She looked nymph-like, wrapped in thin white cotton, hair curly and loose, edges heavenly illuminated by a weak candle somewhere behind her.

Wearing glasses.

“What is it?” She asked tremulously.

“May I come in?” he asked boldly.

She should say no. Her mind told her to shut the door and lock it. But for the life of her she could not. She would not.

In response, she stepped back from the door and allowed him entry.

He glanced around the room as she picked up a nearby shawl and draped it around her shoulders.

The garret room was not overly small, and clean except for books piled like dead leaves everywhere he looked.

It was quiet. Big Ben announced a new hour in the cold, dark distance.

He suddenly forgot himself.

“Do you wish to sit?” she asked, breaking the silence. She tore her glasses off her face and placed them down on a table. She felt they made her look like a governess. She hated to wear them in public, but she was unable to read without them. Probably too many nights reading in dim light...

“Yes, thank you,” he stammered out.

They sat on the bed together, which squeaked in protest. She swallowed hard.

“Have you been out tonight?”

He was not sure what she meant.

“You’re not in uniform. I wondered if you had been out with...friends...or something.”

“Oh, no. I had a job to do for the inspector.”

She nodded. “Let me light another candle. This one’s on its last rounds, I’m afraid.”

He watched her as she fetched another candle from a corner cabinet.

She prayed he could not see her hands lightly trembling.

“Do you usually stay up so late?” he asked suddenly.

“Yes. It’s a terrible habit. I try to stop myself reading at a certain hour, but then find I cannot stop. I have no willpower, it seems, “ she said, wondering if she was making herself sound mad.

She lit the second candle shakily, the glow enveloping him slowly. His handsome and rough form illuminated.

Along with a reddish-brown stain on his collar.

“Jedediah!” she shrieked, which made him start. “You’re bleeding!” She turned and searched for a cotton towel, then dipped it in the water of her washbasin, made ice cold by the room.

He brought a hand hesitantly up to his collar. He was not sure what she saw. He felt his throat - there was no injury there.

She padded quietly back to him holding the corner of the towel, now damp with moisture. With her left hand, she  gently pushed his chin to the side, then traced a path on his throat searching for the source of the blood. He allowed it.

There was no wound.

“This is not your blood,” she said.

Moving her hand up, she lightly skimmed his cheek.

It was bristly. Endearingly masculine.

She held her breath.

His pulse roared in his ears.

“No,” he responded, eyes meeting hers. He clutched the crumpled sheet beneath him to stop himself from reaching out and grabbing her body.

“What is it that the Inspector has you do for him?” she asked timidly. “Beg your pardon. I shouldn’t ask you such things.”

“You may ask me whatever you wish, Jo, but I may not always be able to give you an answer.”

She nodded in comprehension.

He brought a hand up to grasp hers, then brought it to his lips. “May I ask you whatever I wish?”

“Yes.”

She was no longer cold.

“The doctor," he continued. "He your sweetheart?”

“No. He is not mine, Jedediah.”

“Word has it he intends to take you away from here.”

“Word has it right.”

“Then do you intend to go with him?”

“It is difficult to refuse the promise of freedom, is it not?”

“What is he to you, Jo?”

“A customer," she said flatly.

“Nothing more?”

“Nothing more.”

He turned her hand, exposing her wrist to him, so tiny in his rough hands, then placed petal soft kisses on her pulse point.

Her shawl slipped off her shoulders and pooled around her bare feet.

Neither bothered to pick it up.

“You were watching us tonight, were you not?”

“Yes.”

“If I were to wish to be your customer this night, would you allow it?”

“No,” she said coldly.

His heart stopped.

She grabbed the hem of her nightgown and dragged it up her thighs. Before he could blink she was straddling his hips, face to face, her hands on either side of his head, her lips brushing his own. “Never a customer, Jed. Not you.”


	8. Chapter 8

He could hurt her. And no one would know until it was too late. 

A more worldly woman would have realized beforehand how defenseless she was.

Jedediah could bind her. He could rape her. He could kill her. 

He sensed her grappling with fear- she trembled with it. But there was something else coursing through her veins. 

Arousal. 

She trembled with that too. 

He placed both hands on either side of her head and pulled her face apart from his.

“Jo,” he said, breathlessly. “I want you to trust that I will not hurt you. If you need me to stop, you say so. Do you hear me, girl?”

“Y-yes,” she stammered. “I am a virgin, Jedediah. I am not to-”

“I know,” he said, interrupting her. “I will not force myself upon you. I want to. But I will not. Do you believe me?”

“I do.” She did. She didn’t exactly know why. But she saw the earnest look in his sharp eyes and she knew. “I do,” she repeated into his mouth. 

He felt each vertebrae along her spine, felt her grinding on him.  

His hand sought her fleshly bottom, moving his finger back, circling tightly puckered flesh, until his finger was enveloped in blistering heat.

He swallowed her gasp.

His cock swelled painfully in his trousers.

She convulsively gripped his shoulder, then snaked her arms around his neck. 

Jedediah kissed her eyelids.

_ Trust. _

Her eyelashes tickled his lips as she rocked back and forth.

“Take your pleasure from me,” he commanded huskily.

Her body responded to his, as she knew it would. 

He watched the slight frown gather between her eyebrows as she concentrated on her release. Her orgasm gathered inside her, which made him hurt with need.

Her eyelids snapped open.

Dark blue eyes burned with passion.

For him.

Suddenly, his own release erupted without warning. 

He shuddered.

Josephine gasped and cried out her release. Jedediah clamped his mouth over hers, trying desperately to muffle their sounds. 

Her breath slowly came back to her as she felt him release his hand from inside her. 

He kissed her neck, her chin, her mouth. She closed her eyes and smiled at his attentions, the strange sense of calm that overtook her. 

She felt him breathing heavily. 

“Did you come as well?” He nodded in response. 

“Jed, lie back, I’ll see things right.”

He did as he was told. She, on all fours over him, unbuttoned his trousers and then worked the opening of his drawers, damp with his own seed. 

She pulled out his spent cock, placed it entirely in her mouth and sucked it dry. To his amazement, she, feline-like, licked and swallowed the remnants of seed in his belly button and around his hair. 

When she was satisfied that she had given him a thorough cleaning, she kissed and suckled his penis like a child sucking its thumb, wishing for him to feel safe and protected.

He never much needed to feel safe and protected.

Until now.

 


	9. Chapter 9

“Are you comfortable?” Josephine asked him as she brought him a glass of water. Jedediah, in his cotton drawers, tried in vain to stretch his legs on her bed. First stretching out with his shins resting on top of the brass footbed, then settling with his feet sticking through the bars.  

“As comfortable as an old boot, this bed is,” he groaned, not really trying to convince her.

Josephine rolled her eyes in response.

“If said boot were a child’s boot,” he added as he took the glass from her outstretched hand.

She sat down, laying down next to him, stretching her limbs like a cat, shifting to her side, throwing her legs over his hips.

“You’re right. It is quite comfortable!” she yawned.

He placed the glass down on the floor with a clunk and regarded her form.

“Take off your shift,” he said in response.

“No,” she said simply.

‘Why. Afraid you’ll catch cold? Come on, I’ll warm ya, girl.”

“No. I’ll just keep it on, if that’s alright with you. Besides, you saw everything there is to see with your capable hands, did you not?”

He regarded her with a slight smirk. “Alright. I suppose I’ll allow it,” he said with a quick poke in her rib, making her shriek. “For now.”

“Oh, ‘for now,’ you say? Shuck your sodden boots under my bed for one night and suddenly you believe yourself in charge, do ya?”

A poke in her gut. She squeaked. She threw her hand up to her mouth.

He lifted his eyebrows and grinned. “What sort of noise was that?”

“Ow! You beast!

“You squeaked,” he said mockingly.

“You stabbed my gut with your finger!”

“Shush!” he chided her. “You don't want to wake the whole house, do you?” He asked as he reached toward the leg that was draped over his hip and squeezed above the knee.

Josephine whooped, which Jedediah noted as a new sound, then she kicked out reflexively, knocking a side table on its legs, the tiny cheval looking glass on its surface wobbling precariously.

“Stop it, damn you!” she giggled, trying in vain to wiggle out of his grasp.

Windchimes.

Another squeeze. This time a hoot.

“Police brutality,” she barely got out.

She kicked out again, this time sending the looking glass to shatter on the wood floor below. “Oh, blimey.”

“That will have done it,” he said.

Their gazes jumped nervously towards the locked door, waiting for signs of approaching steps. When none came, the pair of them exhaled in relief and relaxed.

“Jesus, you are a clumsy bugger, ain’tchya,” he whispered lazily.

“Only when I’m under duress, copper. You made me do it, you animal.”

“I do like the sounds you make when under my kind of duress, Ms. Wilde.”

She turned her chin up towards him. “And what sounds do I make?”

“Good ones,” he grinned.

She rolled her eyes at him and smiled.

He snaked an arm under her and draped her arm around his chest.

“When I was a nipper,” he continued as he stroked her shoulder, “larkin’ about the docks looking for trouble, I found myself turned around and ended up in Chinatown. It was summer, and a storm was about to hit off the water. The wind was fierce that day. The sky had grown dark. Chinamen was all around barkin’ orders to get their wares covered up. Above it all was this sound. It was like the wind was makin’ music. I looked up to see where the sound was comin’ from.”

He threaded his fingers in her hair. “Hangin’ above me was these hollowed out bamboo cylinders tied to a hook, each a different length and girth. These sticks, they would knock into each other when a gust came through. Windchimes, they call it.  Beautiful, it was.”

He felt her smile on his chest as she played with the wiry hairs on his breastbone. “And my laughter reminds you of that sound?”

“Yes,” he said flatly.

Josephine swallowed hard as he continued.

“You know how you have these moments that stay in your memory forever. The people, the place, the sounds, the electricity in the air. I felt...alive… It’s like it happened yesterday.

“When I heard your laughter for the first time, it’s all I could think of. It makes me feel alive, it does. And I quite like it when it’s me that’s caused that sound to come of o’ya,” he chuckled.

Color flushed her cheeks.

She reached a hand up to his cheek and gazed into his eyes. He looked at her with eyes that yearned for more. For her.

Light and shadows played harmoniously with the planes of his face and shoulders. His bushy eyebrows that could make him look so menacing, were now lifted to show nothing but a glint of attraction.

“No one has ever said anything so beautiful to me,” she said. _No one ever will._

Suddenly, a knock on her door and a rattling of the doorknob startled them.

“Jo? Are you alright in there? I thought I heard something crashing. Why is this door locked?”

They both recognized de Vere’s voice from the other side.

Springing into action, Josephine stood and grabbed Jedediah’s trousers, coat and boots. Tossing it into his arms, she pointed to the window.

He looked at her. “Really?”

“Yes! NOW!” she mouthed.

He stubbed his toe on of the many piles books on the floor, cursed it, then climbed up a bookshelf out the window on the rooftop. He gasped at the frigid air that hit him. Tossing his things onto the roof, he looked back at her for a moment before disappearing.

“I’m off duty today,” he whispered quickly. Can you get out today? Come to the boxing club in Bethnal Green. Ask any cabbie- he’ll get you there.”

“I shall try!” She said rather desperately. “Look for the ladder- you can get down that way.”

He nodded. There was just no time to discuss it more. He bent down and kissed her on the forehead.

Josephine shut the window behind him, collected herself, then padded up to the door.

“Why is this door locked?” de Vere repeated her question.

“It’s Albie. He sometimes sleepwalks and comes in here. It startles me every time,” she laughed nervously.

De Vere regarded her excuse and nodded her head, allowing it. She glanced around the room for signs of disturbance then looked Josephine up and down. “What happened?”

“I knocked into the nightstand, my looking glass fell. I was just looking for something with which to clean it when you knocked.”

“Be careful with the glass, Jo. Why don't I send someone up.”

“No, it won't be necessary, mam. It's quite alright. I can manage.”

“Your modiste arrives in an hour. Wash up before you come down. Nothing heavy when you take breakfast. And stay away from sugar.”

“Yes, mam.”

When de Vere left her, she closed the door and leaned up against it. She let out a breath she didn’t realize she had been holding.

Then she glanced over to the window. A smile crept up on her as she imagined the ghost of him climbing up into the murky morning sky.

Her room suddenly felt so dismally cavernous without him there. How strange this feeling.

She felt the ghost of his fingers linger on her limbs, her stomach, her clavicle, and everywhere else. Her hand came up to her breastbone, her fingers reached up to touch her chin, her cheek, her parted, swollen lips.

She could still taste him.

They had explored every inch of the other. The newness of each other’s bodily territories was palpable, exciting.

And yet, it all happened so organically as though it had been done a thousand times before, as if their young bodies had metamorphosed into vehicles for ancient spirits of lovers throughout the ages.

Insatiable ancient spirits.

She felt comfortable around him, but not in a boring, tired way. Rather, there was simply no reason or necessity for acts of pretense or being coy.

Perhaps they were old souls, lovers, reincarnated.

Perhaps this was...love? Her heart fluttered at the thought. She’d only read about it.

There had always been lust, hadn’t there.

Yes, from the moment she first saw him. The moment he protected her in his arms, held her against his hard chest.

She sat down on the bed and gathered the sheets up to her nose and inhaled deeply. She could smell them together. She swooned and fell back against her pillow with a smile, burying her nose in it, smelling his hair, his sweat, his body. She pulled up her knees in a fetal position, still smiling.

She should be hungry. She wasn’t. She should be tired. She wasn’t. What was she feeling? It was entirely new.

Exhilaration.

*****

Jedediah’s bones were still frozen as he hopped down off the last rung of a ladder that had seen better days. With each step down he wondered if it would be his last.

The pangs in his stomach were palpable. He needed sustenance.

He wrapped his coat around his chest and walked as quickly as possible towards his own borough.

As he turned a corner, Jedediah was met with an onslaught of civilization. The shopkeepers were already out, the chimneys were already puffing black smoke into the atmosphere, and across the street, following the smell of hot pies and freshly poured beer, his destination.

A solid, scrubbed sort of pub, all brass and poorly stained wood, it’s the kind of place that men of his background have been going for years. The publican had known Jedediah since he was a pungent and filthy lad working at the slaughterhouse in Smithfield Market.

“Mornin’ Johnnie,” he greeted the shocked publican as he walked in.

“Well, if it ain’t ol’ Jedediah Shine. Up at this ‘our? What’ll you ‘ave, son?”

“One of those meat pies a’yours. And a pint, please, sir.” He wrung his hands together as he took a stool at the bar. Jedediah glanced around the pub, nodding as he acknowledged some of the old men who were still there from the night past.

He devoured the pie with the unselfconscious zest of a hungry young boy. Fork and knife were not needed for the quivering assemblage of flour, sheep ankle, ox-tail and hot gravy that lay cupped in his palm. He chewed open-mouthed, letting the cooling air in. Within minutes he was wiping his chin and crudely licking his own hand.

“Ta, Johnnie. Hit the spot, that did,” Jedediah says as he finished his lager, stood up, and tossed his schillings on the bar.

*****

Jedediah eased into the steaming hot bath with a groan, his cold and hard muscles shocked by the sudden increase in temperature.

_Jesus God, yes._

He leaned back and shuddered slightly, feeling each part of his body adjust to the warmth.

He leaned his head back and closed his heavy eyelids.

And there she was. A memory made of parts and pieces of different memories of the previous night.

He could still taste her salty erotic flavor on his tongue. Still smell her on his hands: flowers and sex. He smiled at the memory.

What had possessed him to go see her? As he had returned to her borough in the cold, moonlit night to return the cab to his inspector, he felt like his brain had relinquished control to some other force. He had been driven by his cock before. But this. This was different.  

It was as if it was at once something he had always done and would be doing from now on. As if it was perfectly normal that he would return from dumping a body into the Thames to her open arms.

He smiled involuntarily remembering the shock and pleasure in her eyes when she saw him outside her door. How she immediately accepted him into her room, her bed, as if she had been wanting and needing him as well.

He had had women since coming of age. But for years he had felt the cold hard rejection of those who abhorred the odor he emanated after having worked 10 hours in a slaughterhouse. There had been many sleeps since those days, but as he stood there on the landing, waiting for her to open the door, a sudden numbing fear hit him. _What, you think she’d want the filthy likes of you touchin’ ‘er?_

Turns out she did.

He was thrilled that she trusted him. Genuinely trusted him.

Trusted him enough to allow him to bring her pleasure over and over again. And how easy it was for him to bring her pleasure! Brilliant, it was.

After the first time they climaxed together they barely spoke two words until dawn approached and he wanted water. It didn’t matter. They spoke in a primordial tongue.

Her swollen lips. Her blue eyes. Her messy hair on the pillow next to him, then covering his arm and shoulder as she lay draped over him. Before the bloody knock on the door.  

She had met his passions, his desires, and nearly surpassed them.

Opening his eyes, he suddenly felt the silence surround him in the cavernous toilette. It mourned her absence. He felt her absence. Did she feel his?

He fell into his bed and tried in vain to sleep. Her memory refused to let him go. At last it yielded slightly, only then allowing him to fall into a deep, gentle slumber, preparing him for dreams of windchimes, flowers, and warmth.


End file.
